E. M. Powell (30 page)

“Of course.” Theodosia squeezed her mother’s hand.

Palmer gave a definite nod.

The monk closed the door behind him, and Amélie gestured to the wooden settle and one of the stools. “Sit with me,” she said to Theodosia. “Sir Palmer, take your ease on the stool.” She placed Theodosia’s hand in her lap. “This will take some time.”

CHAPTER 23

Theodosia scanned her mother’s face, unsettled by the seriousness of her tone. “Speak, Mama,” she said. “Whatever it is you have to tell me, I can bear it. After all, I am a grown woman now.”

“So you are, my blessed one.” Amélie squeezed her hand tight. “Although I never wanted to have to tell you, or anyone else, of this.” She put her head to one side and drew in a long breath. “Have you ever wondered about your papa?”

“A little,” said Theodosia. “But whenever I asked about him, you would only say he had been in heaven for a long time.”

Her mother’s steely look reminded her of her response.

She went on. “So to pray for his soul, world without end, amen.”

Amélie repeated the old words with her, then sighed. “I could never speak of your papa to you. How I longed to, during those short years you and I were together.”

“Can you tell me now?” said Theodosia, heart a little faster at this change in Mama.

“I can, and, God help me, I should.” She sighed again. “The very first thing he did was frighten me out of my wits.” Amélie’s memory brought a radiance to her face. “I was returning from a day’s cherry picking, near my home village in Anjou. Oh, it seems so far away now.”

“It is,” said Benedict. “I’ve fought there. Over the sea, in the other part of King Henry’s great kingdom.”

“Then you know how beautiful it is,” said Amélie with a wistful smile. “It was midsummer, and everyone in the village helped through the day, for the cherry season is short and the fruit will spoil if it’s not brought in quickly. It was a hot, hot day, with the sun on our backs, the sweet smell of the fruit in the warm sunshine. My hands were stained dark pink with juice, and I’m sure the scent from crushed fruit made me fuddled, for I set off for home at sunset with my companions, but without my water jar.”

Father was a farmer?
Theodosia waited for her to continue.

“I went back to get it, for I didn’t want to be without it the following day,” said Amélie. “It took me a while, but I found it. I was making my way home through the lanes, high bushes on both sides and crowded with roses. I don’t know what it is with roses, but when the evening comes, they seem to send out ten times their scent. Then, suddenly, from the bushes, out steps this strange man. I screamed with fright, as I was only your age, my blessed.” She arched her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

“Your daughter has seen sights more frightening than that,” said Benedict.

Amélie’s hand went to her mouth. “Please, do not remind me.” She shook her head. “I went to run, but the stranger grabbed my wrist and pleaded with me for help. While his appearance was rough, with his pale skin burned and lips cracked from the sun, his thick red hair matted with sweat, his voice was that of a nobleman and his face was the strongest I had ever, ever seen. I took a better look at his clothing. Though it was without decoration and torn in many places, I could tell it was the finest cloth and beautifully tailored.”

“Then was he a lord?” said Theodosia.

“Hold, Theodosia.” Benedict gestured to her. “A nobleman wouldn’t be roaming the land on foot, he should have been mounted.”

“Why should I hold? It’s my father — ”

“Theodosia, your manners. Sir Palmer asks a perceptive question.”

Mama’s tone that allowed no argument — she remembered it well.

With a gracious nod to Benedict, Amélie continued. “A hunting accident, poor soul. He’d gone out on his own, his horse had thrown him. Oh, but in spite of his hours in the heat, he was still furious. He dug into one of his pockets and waved a horseshoe at me. ‘Look, look,’ he said, ‘some’ — and I cannot repeat the word — ‘used the wrong-size nails.’ He was not familiar with the countryside, so had wandered for hours in the boiling sun. He railed about his accident, his farrier.” Amélie gave her inward-looking smile again. “I feared he would drive himself into a paroxysm.”

Theodosia did not dare to comment.

“The heat can drive a man mad,” said Benedict.

Amélie nodded. “That was what worried me. I handed him my water jar and told him to drink what was left. I do not think I have ever seen a man so grateful for a few mouthfuls of spring water warmed through from a day in the sun. As he drank, I took my straw hat and fanned him with it as best I could, took my own kerchief and mopped his brow. He smiled at me as he drained the bottle. Oh, the way that smile lit his eyes: piercing gray, they were, as sharp as an eagle’s, and such huge life in them.” With a sigh, she shook her head once more. “I offered to take him home.”

Theodosia dared not give voice to her disapproval, but she doubted if it mattered. Though her mother spoke of her father, Amélie seemed far more focused on Benedict.

“I know what you must be thinking, Sir Palmer.” Amélie had a delicate flush to her cheek. “But I was not a nun then. I lived with my parents, respectable, God-fearing free tenants with ten virgates of their own. I had to offer him shelter, somewhere to eat, drink. My poor offering of water would not have been enough to sustain him for long.”

“A noble offer.” Benedict gave a slight nod as Theodosia stayed silent.

Her mother didn’t seem to notice any undercurrent in Benedict’s remark. “As we walked along the lanes, he appeared restored to great good cheer. He told me I’d been sent from heaven by the Almighty to save his life, plucked rose petals from the bushes, and strew them where I walked, said such a woman should not have to tread upon this earth.” She smiled again at her own recollections. “I laughed at first at such absurdity, but he would have none of it, kept calling out my virtues. Darkness was falling as we approached my father’s farm. I could see lights moving about, and I knew folk would be looking for me. I turned to him to point them out to him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “As I did so, he fell to his knees and promised himself to me.”

Theodosia matched Benedict’s look of surprise. For a terrible second, she thought she might laugh, as much at her late father’s wild actions as at the idea of Benedict behaving so. She coughed. “Did you take him seriously, Mama?”

Amélie considered her for a moment. “Of course I did. His behavior was unorthodox, but there was no wrong in it. Are you saying otherwise?”

Benedict rescued her. “Pray go on, Sister Amélie. I think Theodosia relives your own surprise.”

“I brought my young man home,” said Amélie. “My parents were greatly relieved to see me and, once they had heard his story, my young man too. Mama had the servants prepare him a room so he could be brought back to health. Our house wasn’t a grand hall, only a farmhouse, but it was very spacious and well appointed. My stranger left after a couple of days, with a borrowed horse.”

“Then I was born out of wedlock?” Theodosia could scarce get the words out.

High spots of color pinked her mother’s cheeks. “How dare you suggest that I would commit such a sin? Have you lost your reason, Laeticia?”

Theodosia clamped her hands together. “Theodosia.”

Amélie’s nostrils flared. “Well, now I see why your vocation eludes you, with sinful thoughts ready in your mind.” Straight on the settle before, she sat even straighter. “My virtue was never in question. Unlike yours has been, over the last couple of weeks, with you in the company of sinful men.”

Now it was Theodosia’s turn to color. She couldn’t meet Benedict’s eye.

“My young man came back, time after time,” continued Amélie. “Always seeking my hand, pressing me to take him, begging my father to influence me. I grew to love him and his noble love. So eventually, I told him yes. When we were promised to each other before God, it was the happiest day of my life. Then you, Laeticia, were born the next time the harvests came round. We named you as joy, happiness, for that was what we had: noble, blessed love.”

An odd expression formed on Benedict’s face. “How long were you together, Sister Amélie?”

“Only a year.” Amélie’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “Then he had to go.”

“He died,” said Theodosia, keen for the truth.

“No.” Slow tears rolled down her mother’s face. “He had to go. For as a nobleman, he was pressed to other duties.”

“I think I see,” said Benedict.

“I do not,” said Theodosia, bewildered, looking from one to another. “You are a widow, Mama.”

Amélie brought a hand to her brow. “Oh, this is so hard.”

“You’re a widow now, but only since the close of the year,” said Benedict. “Your husband was a nobleman. Called to another duty. Couldn’t give his name to his family.” He met Theodosia’s eyes with a look of triumph before he addressed Amélie once more. “He was Thomas Becket, wasn’t he, Sister?”

Theodosia’s grasped her mother’s hands as if in a vise. “Oh, Mama. Is it true? My own dear Thomas, kindness himself to me always.” Her own tears threatened. “Laying his life down for both of us, just like a loving father would do.”

Amélie pulled her hands away, shaking her head. “No, no, you are both wrong.”

Benedict persisted. “That’s why Becket had you both hidden away. That’s what Fitzurse wanted, to seek you both out on behalf of the monarch. The discovery of a wife and daughter would cause Becket to lose his position as Archbishop of Canterbury. The King would be rid of his meddlesome priest once and for all.”

“I said no.”

Benedict stiffened, caught by Mama’s displeased tone for the first time.

“Your father wasn’t Thomas, although he kept us safe for many years.”

“Then who was he, Mama?”

Amélie drew herself up again, cheeks still wet. “I found that out when you were eight weeks old.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Amélie relaxed into the high-backed chair pulled before the fireplace in her bedroom, her baby cradled in both arms. “Shush, shush.” The padded tapestry cushions of the nursing chair were bliss to her tired limbs. Baby Laeticia had kept her from her rest for many hours last night.

Laeticia continued to mewl and grizzle, then buffeted her small face against Amélie’s woolen-clad bosom.

“Not so impatient. It’s coming.” Oh, this baby had her father’s strength of will, his enormous appetite too. Amélie undid the fastening at the front of her dress, moved her linen shift to one side, and released one full breast. Her tiny infant sought it out with her pink gums and settled in an instant.

Amélie gazed down at the little downy head, one baby fist tight against a baby cheek as if to guard against a milk thief. The wood fire crackled bright and heated the room through from the cold of the windy autumn day. Outside, her parents busied themselves as always, Mother supervising a servant as she swept red and orange leaves from their yard, Father overseeing the repair of a barn door in preparation for the winter to come. The rhythm of brush and mallet, along with the baby’s steady nursing and the warmth of the room, pulled her to a near doze.

But one thing was absent. Or, rather, one person. As if her thoughts called him there, she heard hooves in the yard and Geoffrey’s deep voice salute her parents.

She smiled to herself. Now the day was perfect.

Firm footsteps sounded from the stairwell, and the door opened to a waft of cold air. Geoffrey came in, a fur-edged dark green cloak slung around his wide, powerful chest and shoulders. Smooth calfskin hose and polished leather boots emphasized his strongly muscled legs. He pulled off his rolled-edge fur cap and smoothed his red hair.

“Husband.” She smiled her love at him as she savored his familiar face. Familiar it might be, but still with the power to arouse every inch of her body.

“Amélie.” He came over and pulled up a stool next to her. “My, my, our girl has a fierce appetite.” He raised a gauntleted hand and touched the top of Laeticia’s head. The baby suckled on, oblivious to her father’s presence.

Amélie sighed at her daughter’s intent purpose and looked to Geoffrey. Her insides contracted. His face was set in a mask of sadness.

“Geoffrey, what’s the matter?” she said.

He rested his elbows on both knees and clasped both hands. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Amélie.”

“Are you ill? Injured?”

“More complicated than that, I’m afraid.” He got up and paced the clean rushes on the floor before the fire.

“Then what?” She wanted to jump up and grab hold of him, shake him into speech, but the greedy bundle in her lap would not allow it.

He paused. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And our daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Please remember that when you hear what I have to say.” Geoffrey resumed his slow tread before the fire, back and forth, back and forth, as if his steps helped him to find words. “When we first met, I told you I was a nobleman. Part of such a life is about duty, and you understand that?”

Amélie nodded. “With all my soul.”

“Last week, I discovered I have a new obligation to fulfill.” He closed his eyes and wouldn’t look at her. “I am to be married.”

A chill enveloped her, like the fire threw ice, not flames. “But you cannot. You are already married to me.”

He opened his eyes and cast her a shamed glance. “I know. But it’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh, is it, noble sir?” Laeticia stirred in her lap, her feed disturbed by her mother’s raised voice. “I cannot see how. You stood next to me before the priest and swore your vows before God himself. How can that be undone?”

“It can’t, it can’t.” Geoffrey dropped to his knees before her and held her face. Grief clouded his gray eyes. “Which is why I’ve put you in a terrible situation.”